Martin McDonagh has become so synonymous with Irish theater, it’s become a bit jarring to see a play by any other Hibernian pass without massive bloodshed. I’ve half come to expect the next “The Importance of Being Earnest” I see to include Lady Bracknell applying jumper cables to Jack Worthing’s eyeballs.

Conor McPherson’s “The Weir,” now enjoying a capable and blissfully peaceful staging at the Victorian Playhouse, is the tale of four sad Irish scruffs who pass a windy night regaling the new lassie in town with tales of ghosts and regrets.

McPherson is no McDonagh, and some might say, “thank goodness.” “The Weir” is positively clement in comparison to, say, McDonagh’s “The Pillowman.” But there’s a reason it was voted by the Royal National Theatre one of the 20th century’s most significant plays. It has just 90 minutes to make a lasting emotional impact the old-fashioned way – with words rather than shock value.

Our tale is set in a run-down pub in remote northwest Ireland where the area’s few inhabitants gather. Into this cocoon comes amiable but anachronistic Valerie (the always reliable Laura Norman). Valerie is a young married woman who has just bought a nearby house – alone – from local real estate seller Finbar (Wade P. Wood).

The jabber starts as small talk and gossip as we get to know Finbar; young bartender Brendan (Joel Stutliff); aloof, dirty Jim (Gregg Adams), and requisite codger Jack (Pete Nelson). To the inattentive ear, there’s no plot, no romance, no character arcs. But something quite special is happening underneath: McPherson is painting verbal portraits of four men – and a woman, it turns out – who have no real history of lasting relationships. They are lonely souls gathering in one of the loneliest corners of the globe.

The booze – and the tale of a supernatural incident at Valerie’s house – loosen tongues, and each tale grows more confessional. We learn of the haunted memories and lost loves that have deposited each into this isolated purgatory.

Terry Dodd’s staging is pleasant, but the acting is at times a bit too restrained. His actors show great earnestness, but they rarely stop to fully relish those sweet moments of silence that define both their geography and their individual states of mind. There are funny moments but the comedy never builds to unabashed belly laughs.

Some tales crescendo nicely; one or two seem interminable in their sameness. There’s a nice tavern set, but Dodd tinkers with the barroom lighting throughout each tale, contradicting the naturalistic setting.

So while the play has been described for a decade as a profoundly emotional experience, this credible staging doesn’t quite realize that achievement.

That said, these actors are first-rate, notably Adams recounting the most McDonagh-

like horror, and Nelson as never-married old blatherer Jack. Tunes such as “Fields of Athenry” and “Whiskey in the Jar” set a nice Irish mood.

Of course, theater is only one reason for playgoers to seek out the beautifully restored Victorian. This 75-seat gem is nestled in the basement of a 1908 northwest Denver home, making it a neighborhood theatergoing experience like no other.

Owners Wade and Lorraine Wood encourage visitors to come early and stay late to explore the main floor. The place has loads of history, and the Woods will tell you tales late into the evening just as beguiling as anything in “The Weir.”

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